


Last Ones Of Our Kind

by softlyforgotten



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyforgotten/pseuds/softlyforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What if I gave you the order, then, to abandon the hunt for Lieutenant Fick, whose days with the Marine Corps are over?"</p><p>Brad drew in a breath. "Sir," he said, "then I would go hunting for Nate Fick, rather than my LT."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Ones Of Our Kind

> and there was a new voice  
> which you slowly  
> recognized as your own,  
> that kept you company  
> as you strode deeper and deeper  
> into the world,  
> determined to do  
> the only thing you could do--  
> determined to save  
> the only life you could save.
> 
> \-- _The Journey_ , Mary Oliver

The sky above Ad Diwaniyah was as blue as anything Brad had ever seen back home. He squinted up at the glare and then shifted, making himself as comfortable as he could be on the hard ground the grass was hiding, pillowing one arm behind his head. Behind him, he could still hear the low, constant sound of Ray's voice, though not what he was saying. Hopefully it was nothing especially psychotic. Brad thought Ray was doing a little better today; he'd seen Rudy clapping Ray's shoulder, at least. That was something.

The worst part about going home was the waiting. Cleaning shit up and inventory, that was alright; trying to work out a little of the mess they'd made in Baghdad a few days ago, that had been better. It was what happened after that that killed Brad: sitting around listening to the drone of planes and engines and officers, the shouts of the men, taking the endless delays and rescheduling without question, because there wasn't a question in the world that would make it go any faster.

"—goddamned, baby-wiped assholes whose idea of a good strategic manoeuvre is—"

"Hello, Brad," Nate said, dropping easily down beside him. "Your RTO is on the rampage again."

Brad turned to look at him. "You're the CO, sir," he said. "My days of babysitting Corporal Person are nearly at a close."

"Until the next tour," Nate countered, half-smiling, and Brad sighed, lying back on the ground and closing his eyes.

"There is that," he admitted. "One might say that I am never going to be free of the emotionally retarded, overly eager, Whiskey Tango fuck who will attempt to fuck anything that moves, especially if it has Daddy Issues, but I myself am not so mean spirited." He paused and opened his eyes to glance at Nate. Nate didn't say anything, half-smiling and looking for all the world like a supportive CO waiting for his Sergeant to finish. Brad said, "I am going to disconnect every communicative device I own when I get home, wait and see."

"That is understandable," Nate said. He drew in a breath. "Brad—"

"There's a rumour you're leaving," Brad said. He didn't open his eyes, not this time. He didn't want to know what Nate's expression was.

"Yes," Nate said.

"Yes, there's a rumour?" Brad said. "Or, yes, you're actually." He stopped, and Nate was quiet for a long time.

"I want to go back to college," he said finally. "I feel – uncertain about some of the aspects of life at the moment and—"

"Iraq's been a clusterfuck for everyone," Brad said, not even able to regret interrupting the LT in his haste to sit up and glare. "But you know this was a colossal fuck up and not what we're meant to – you were in Afghanistan, sir, you know what being in the Corps is really about. It's not going to be like this all the time."

"I know, Brad," Nate said. "I simply feel – the Marine Corps doesn't have a place for me anymore."

"That's," Brad began, and then stopped, because no matter how desperate and blindly furious the idea of Nate leaving them made him, they weren't off tour yet, Nate wasn't gone _yet_ , and he was Brad's LT.

Nate watched him, still with that uncertain little smile. "I'm sorry, Brad," he said. "I realise that – that you are bound to have some concerns about my departure."

"The prospect doesn't fill me with joy, no," Brad muttered. He glanced at Nate. "Where will you go?"

"Somewhere," Nate said. He flapped his hand dismissively, and Brad raised his eyebrows. It wasn't like Nate to not have thought this through completely, and he opened his mouth to say so before Nate looked at him and added, "Harvard, maybe. I'll consider my options more when I get home."

"Right," Brad said. He hesitated, then said, "Sir, if you ever wanted to come out to California—"

"Thank you, Brad," Nate said, but his face looked shut off, like when he was handing down an order he didn't want to give. "Certainly I will try to visit at some point."

Brad swallowed. "Sir," he said. "Is there something else I should be aware of?"

"No," Nate said. He ran his hands through his short hair, looking pale and grimy and exhausted. They were safe enough now, Brad thought. There was no fucking excuse for Nate not to be getting enough sleep.

"Anyway," Brad said, a little daring. "We have your details. You know Ray'll just harass you night and day if you try and take off without us completely."

"I am assured of this," Nate murmured, and Brad smiled at that, ducking his head just slightly. Nate turned to look at him face on and raised his eyebrows, wanting to be let in on the joke, but Brad didn't say anything, just watched him steadily, Nate's careful regard settling around Brad as solid as any other defence.

Nate wasn't looking away. Brad said, "Not long now, before we go home," and Nate's mouth twisted, sharp and unhappy before he got control of himself again. Brad sucked in a breath. "Sir," he said. "Really, what's—"

Nate cut him off with a kiss, lighter than anything Brad had ever known before, Nate's mouth brushing across his like something final, the end of something, a conclusion to a whole day or night or month of something that Nate hadn't given him yet. Neither of them moved away, though, Brad staring at Nate's face, the flicker of Nate's eyelashes against his dirt smudged cheeks. Nate curled his hand around Brad's jaw, careful, the brush of his blunt nails against Brad's stubble somehow shocking. This wasn't like anything Brad would have ever thought possible between the two of them, chaste and light and barely there. He wanted to pull Nate in closer, or shove him down onto the ground and lick into his mouth, tell Nate that if they were going to fuck up a whole lot of things, probably their working relationship included, they would sure as hell do it properly. He didn't, though. Instead he sat still and closed his eyes, kissing Nate very quietly indeed, listening to the low buzz of the afternoon around him.

\---

Home, when he finally got there, was always a blur to start with. Travelling home was a mess of orders and men (strange and familiar, trying to keep a hold on his guys), and then the planes and convoys to a pick-up place and a band playing and families crying. Brad didn't have trouble adjusting to being back in the US like some guys did, especially not after days doing nothing at Ad Diwaniyah, and it wasn't like he was still looking for sniper attacks, but it did feel very surreal. He forgot where things were; expected his bike to be right outside, his house next door to the airport, the geography of America suddenly unpredictable and deliberately confusing.

He didn't have much time to think about it, anyway, before his mom was clutching at him, his sisters lining up for hugs, his dad smiling at him, eyes very warm and very glad. Brad was much taller than all of them, and he grinned down at them, thought about how he would have good food tonight, and a comfortable bed, and as much sleep as he wanted to.

A shower or a bath, too, but to be perfectly honest, Brad had adjusted enough to his own stench that he didn't mind waiting a while on that one. The bed was more important.

All around him, the guys were breaking up, heading in separate directions. Brad got tackled briefly from behind by Ray, but Ray was gone before he could turn around, just a stupidly brash laugh echoing back to him in farewell; he spoke to Poke's wife and kid, but Poke was too caught up in talking to his little girl to say much of a goodbye. In the end, Brad settled for nodding at most of the guys, well aware that they'd all see each other again soon. Sooner, in the case of psychopaths like Ray. Brad wasn't stupid enough to think that a respite from war meant a similar one from Ray Person.

One guy, though, one guy wasn't coming back, and Brad looked around vainly for Nate, rocking up on his toes to look over everyone's heads. He was distracted briefly by Trombley and his Whiskey Tango wife coming over to bid him an oddly solemn goodbye, Trombley touching Brad's wrist softly and saying something that might have been "thanks" and, then again, might not have been, and then by Walt laughing and waving at him, bright-eyed and smiling properly again for the first time since Muwaffaqiyah, which made Brad suddenly happy.

"Ready to go, honey?" his mom said.

"Wait," Brad said. He had just caught sight of Nate, across the room, talking very seriously to men in dress uniform. Brad squinted – shit, were they _generals_?

Nate looked around, suddenly, and caught Brad's gaze. Brad raised his eyebrows and Nate smiled very slightly. He looked tired. Brad thought it was about time that Nate went home and got some sleep, rather than talking to assholes in command with stern expressions.

Brad tilted his head to the side, and Nate shook his head, raised one hand very slightly. Then he turned and said something and the generals nodded, and Nate fell into step between them, walking easily out of the room.

"Bye," Brad said.

\---

Brad went home and took a shower (because his sisters insisted, and because dinner wasn't quite ready yet) ate three serves of his dad's roast lamb dinner, and went to sleep for nearly thirty hours.

He didn't dream about anything at all, and even though he woke every few hours, it was easy enough to roll over and go back to sleep. Brad could feel the stiffness in his spine from hours crammed into the Humvee dissolving, could feel himself _straightening_ , breathing in the warm air, so different from the grit and gunpowder of Iraq. He slept and woke up and thought, _no Sixta, no Godfather_ , and slept some more, woke up and reminded himself about the lack of Captain America's presence in his bedroom, how he didn't have to resist the urge to punch Encino Man in the face every time he happened to pass him, slept again. The world seemed warm and comfortable, and it wasn't quiet, but it was trundling on very easily without him. Brad didn't have to get up and hunt down lube for the guns, he didn't have to worry about Walt quietly falling apart on them or Trombley single-handedly ensuring that there was no civilian population left for them to save, he didn't have Ray rattling on in his ear (he was half-asleep and no one was there, so Brad admitted that he didn't mind that one as much, and it was useful when he got bad pop stuck in his head and needed an outlet).

When he woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, he lay in bed for a long time anyway, enjoying the warmth of the covers, the softness of the sheets and mattress. He thought about lying on his back in Ad Diwaniyah, the grass pricking at his arms, thought about sitting there and kissing Nate Fick, and the smiling way Nate had finally pulled himself away and gone back to camp. Brad wondered if it was too soon to find him again. He thought about the look in Nate's eyes at the airport, and decided it wasn't.

Eventually he climbed out of bed and wandered out to the kitchen, standing at the window and scratching his head. His hair was just starting to get long enough for him to tug at it, and after a little while his mom came up behind him.

"It's good to have you home," she said quietly, and touched the small of his back. His parents weren't into huge emotional displays – mostly, Brad suspected, because they knew such things made him uneasy – so Brad leaned back a little into her touch, smiled down at her.

"Nice to be home," he said.

"Did you want to do something?" she asked. "Go out to dinner, have a barbecue – Sarah's in town, if you want the whole family shebang."

Brad hmmned. "Maybe in a little while," he said. He didn't mind having big family gatherings, and he knew it was important to some of his relatives.

His mom nodded. "Anything planned for today?"

"I think," Brad said, tapping his fingers idly on the counter, "I'm going to call my LT."

\---

"The number you have called could not be connected," the automated voice told him, and Brad blinked at the worn piece of paper that had Nate's details scrawled on it. "Please check the number, and try again."

Brad did. Twice.

\---

All emails to _nate.fick@gmail.com_ bounced back.

\---

"Jesus, Brad!" Ray said. "I get that you're a needy little bitch, alright, but I can't be there holding your hand all the time! I'm back in a house with pussy and nobody trying to kill me, you need to take some pills and go to bed and I'll be over to sing you sweet nothings as soon as I've finished having my own life again, you big homo."

"Hello, Ray," Brad said.

"Hey, baby," Ray said. "What can I do you for? I'm aware that what can't I do you for is maybe the more precise question, but let's just pretend that you don't totally fucking _want_ me for the sake of polite conversation."

Brad rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "Have you heard from the LT?"

For someone who talked as much as he did, Brad reflected, Ray was pretty good at reflecting polite disbelief over the phone without saying anything.

"Ray?"

"It hasn't even been a week, Brad," Ray said.

"I know," Brad said. He did, every day itching at him. "I wanted to talk to him before he went off to Harvard, though, and he's up and disappeared. I wondered if I had old numbers or something, mixed them up with the ones he gave me in Ad Diwaniyah."

" _Jesus_ ," Ray said. "You're seriously fucking pathetic, I'm sorry to have to tell you this," but Brad could hear the shuffling noises that meant Ray was ambling off to have a look through the bomb that was his bedroom for details. Brad sat quietly and waited, and eventually Ray rattled off the email address and numbers that were identical to the set Brad had.

"Yeah," he said. "That's what he gave me, too. They're not working."

"Oh, man," Ray said. "You think the LT gave us the Rejection Hotline? Fuck, homes, that is not good for morale."

"LT wouldn't do something like that," Brad said, even as something gnawed at him. He fucking _knew_ the LT had been off, those past few days. He wouldn't put it past Nate to decide to nobly distance himself from the men in some attempt to keep them from feeling any sense of duty to an ex-Marine. He hadn't thought Nate would do it to him, though. Not after Afghanistan, and then the disaster that Operation Iraqi Freedom had been, and not after that kiss. Especially not after Brad had taken the kiss for a promise, and let it stay like that, hadn't followed Nate afterward. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.

"Then what the fuck's going on?" Ray said. "Jesus, Brad, this isn't setting off any of your abandonment issues, is it?"

"Shut up," Brad said. "I'm calling Gunny."

\---

Gunny hadn't heard from Nate. His set of contact details was the same as Brad's.

Brad had similar results with Poke, Q-Tip, Christeson and Doc. He called Eric and dug out fucking Captain America's number, just in case, but the asshole had the same set of details as everyone else (though Brad sure as hell wouldn't have blamed Nate for giving _him_ the Rejection Hotline) _and_ he talked Brad's ear off about potential PTSD for half an hour.

At the end of three hours on the phone – maybe Brad's least favourite pastime – he had no idea where Nate was, no new piece of knowledge or information besides a bad headache.

"I'm going to bed," he told his mom, but first he booked a flight to New Hampshire for the next day.

\---

Nate's house was empty. There was a sign outside advertising its sale. Brad stood outside the gate, staring through the empty windows to the complete lack of furniture inside, before he went back to the airport, went home. He slept for a few hours, got up, put on his Dress Blues and borrowed his mom's car, driving with his jaw clenched and his gaze straight ahead.

\---

"Hello, Brad," Godfather rasped, and Brad stood, saluted. "Come into my office, now. I didn't expect to see you anytime soon."

"No, sir," Brad said, and shook his head when Godfather offered him a mint. He sat down in the empty chair on the opposite side of Godfather's desk, tried not to think about how little he liked this man, how little he respected him. He focused on keeping his face cool and Iceman calm, steadying each breath.

"How can I help you?" Godfather asked. "I hope nothing big is troubling you, Brad."

"I hope not," Brad said. "I'm having some trouble getting in touch with Lieutenant Fick, sir. None of the other men have heard from him, either, and it seems that the contact details for him we were given are incorrect."

"Mmmn." Godfather's gaze was unreadable. "That is regrettable. Is it possible he made some error, and will get in touch with you to clear it up soon?"

"I doubt he would have made the same error to so many people, sir," Brad said. "It doesn't seem very much like the Lieutenant. And the address he gave me – his house appears to be on the market, and there was no sign of anyone living there."

"I see," Godfather said.

Brad swallowed. "Sir, I was wondering if you would be able to provide me with some way of contacting him."

"Ferrando cannot," Godfather said. "Regrettable indeed, Brad, but Nate Fick is no longer with the Marine Corps."

"What?" Brad blinked. "Sir, he was only thinking about leaving, surely the correct procedures could not have been fulfilled that quickly—"

"Nate Fick did not leave the Marine Corps," Godfather said. "He was thanked for his service and his work, and relieved of his position."

Brad sat frozen in place, barely able to think things through properly. "Sir," he said, voice low, "was this a result of Captain Schwetje's belief that Lieutenant Fick was in some manner—"

"Captain Schwetje's influence is perhaps less than you presume," Godfather said. "But the nature of Lieutenant Fick's discharge is classified, Brad."

"You can tell me where he is," Brad said. "You must have some idea—"

"No, Brad," Godfather said. "I cannot."

\---

"This is seriously fucked, homes," Ray said. "They fucking _sacked_ him? The LT? He was the only asshole officer in Iraq who was doing his fucking job."

"I'm aware of that, Ray," Brad said, rolling a pen between his fingers. He cocked it at the horizon, tipped it up a couple of times. His family was kind of worried, he knew, but at the moment he was too full up of a bone-deep anger and (underneath that, in the fucking _marrow_ ) white-hot fear to give much of a shit about anything besides finding wherever Nate Fick thought it was appropriate to run off to and fetch him back.

"It's not fucking right," Ray grumbled. Brad took the phone away from his ear a little and let Ray ramble on, occasionally listening to the outburst of "motherfucker" and "officer dicksuck" until finally he started listening properly again just in time to hear Ray say, "Anyway, how are you going to find your girlfriend now?"

"Don't," Brad said.

"Sorry," Ray said. "How are you going to find your illicit gay lover?"

Brad tried not to grind his teeth, because Doc told him it was bad for his teeth and Brad would rather not fuck up any body parts he didn't have to. "I'm going to call in a favour," he said.

"Yeah?" Ray sounded intrigued, but that was probably because he thought the Mafia was an inevitable undercurrent of everything and sensed potential blackmailing going on in this statement. "Who from?"

Brad fired his pen-gun over the horizon, took down every asshole between him and Nate, one-two-three.

"I figure we saved Rolling Stone's tender reporter ass a couple of times, right?" he said, and Ray began to laugh.

\---

Brad's cell rang at three in the morning two days later, with a terse officer on the line telling him to get to Washington as quickly as he could. Brad rolled over and slept for another three hours with the grimly satisfying thought that Rolling Stone worked fast, and a vague echo of Trombley saying "this is your _career_ ", before he got up and booked a stupidly expensive flight.

A stern-faced guy in Dress Blues that were slightly cleaner than Brad's met him at the airport, some asshole who spent his time sucking higher-up's cocks rather than ever going and fighting a war. Brad nodded politely at him and fell into step beside him, refusing to let the guy lead the way.

"You even realise what kind of shit you've gotten yourself into?" the guy said, at the end of the car ride, when they were pulling up outside of the Pentagon and Brad was just starting to worry about that himself.

He looked at the guy and said, "Yup," and walked inside without looking back.

He was met in the foyer by yet another faceless soldier, led through a small labyrinth of corridors and offices, until he was standing in an official looking room, and there was a General whose name he didn't know standing in front of him. He didn't know the General's name, but he sure as hell recognised him, because it was the same guy who had led Nate away, the last time Brad had seen him, and now that Brad was close-up he could see that this guy was a four star General, and a mean motherfucker.

"Well, Sergeant Colbert," the General said. Brad glanced down at his desk, the shiny brass plate there that said _General Davis_. "You've certainly caused a bit of an uproar."

"My apologies, sir," Brad said. "I didn't realise anything like that had occurred."

"No nonsense, Marine," General Davis said, looking unimpressed. "You've got a pretty boy from Rolling Stone poking into unpleasant corners, threatening to raise all kinds of hell, over one goddamn Recon Marine."

"I can't be responsible for Mr Wright's decisions about what he investigates, sir," Brad said. _This is your career_. He didn't care much. "I readily admit that I am concerned about Lieutenant Fick's welfare, though."

"Indeed," the General said, looking at him like Brad was a particularly unpleasant sort of bug he'd like to step on. "Your track record is very impressive, Sergeant Colbert. You're a valuable addition to the Marines."

"Thank you, sir," Brad said.

"You really think this is all worth risking to hunt up one – less impressive Commanding Officer who happens to have inspired your loyalty?"

"I like to stay true to my COs, sir," Brad said. "I would have thought this was a comfort to the Department of Defence."

"So it would seem," the General said. "What if I gave you the order, then, to abandon the hunt for Lieutenant Fick, whose days with the Marine Corps are over?"

Brad drew in a breath. "Sir," he said, "then I would go hunting for Nate Fick, rather than my LT."

General Davis looked at him, blank-faced. "Very well," he said. He stood up and said, "This way, please, Sergeant," and led Brad down yet another corridor and into a white, mostly empty room. There was a wooden desk in one corner, but no chairs. The General turned to an aide waiting outside the room and said, "Please bring down Model NTF987M."

"Yes, sir," the aide said, and the General turned one last scowl on Brad.

"I'll expect you out of here in one hour, Sergeant," he said.

"Yes, sir," Brad said, anxiety churning in his gut. "If I could, sir, is Lieutenant Fick here—"

The door slammed shut behind General Davis. Brad sat on the edge of the desk and recited a long list of the worst curse words he'd heard in the Corps, in their worst combinations, and then a stream of the mostly-gibberish that Ray saved for when he wanted to be _really_ mad.

"Hello, Brad," Nate said, opening the door, and Brad stood up in a rush, staring. Nate was dressed in his greens, his hair as short as it had been the last day in Iraq, and he looked well-rested and calm and as about as unhappy as Brad had ever seen him. Nate closed the door behind him and said, "I see you managed to stay out of trouble."

"Sir," Brad said. He swallowed hard. Nate was really fucking _sad_ , and he was trying to look at Brad like nothing was wrong, like Brad was being silly, like this whole thing was ridiculous. "Sir," Brad said, "what the _fuck_."

Nate's smile dropped away. "Brad," he said.

"You gave us all fake details," Brad said. "And then they said that you were discharged, and – sir. I don't. What's going on?"

"I _have_ been discharged," Nate said, very soft.

"For Encino Man?" Brad remembered Nate's sharp reprimand about nicknames, but he didn't give a fuck just then. "That was fucking small time shit—"

"Not for me," Nate said. "Not for me, it can't be small time for me, Brad."

Brad laughed, horrified to realise that it was a little shaky. "No offence, sir, we all know you hold yourself to a higher moral compass than everybody except maybe your hypothetical God, but—"

"It's not about a moral compass, Brad," Nate said. "I am not meant to dispute orders. I am aware of this."

"Nobody's meant to," Brad said. "It doesn't matter. They can't get rid of you for that—"

"Brad, I am talking about me especially," Nate said. He looked suddenly kind. "You didn't listen to General Davis when he ordered for me to be brought down, did you?"

Brad blinked. "He didn't order for you directly," he said.

"Yes," Nate countered. "He did."

"No," Brad said, waving a hand. "He was calling down some new technology or whatever – Model Something-Or-Other—"

"Model NTF987M," Nate said. He spread his arms out slightly. "And here I am."

Nate was still smiling at him, rueful and kind. "I'm not following, sir," Brad said.

"I'm Model NTF987M," Nate said. "I'm the new technology. I'm a Class One, military developed, homo sapien-based robot with full personality installations and warfare capabilities."

"Wait," Brad said. "Go back."

"Robot," Nate said, quietly. "I'm not human, Brad."

"That's not possible," Brad said.

"It is," Nate said. He rolled up his sleeve, running his nail down the inside of his forearm until he caught on something, and then he flicked _up_ his skin, and Brad flinched backwards at the mess of wires and LED lights blinking below Nate's skin.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "That's not – you're real. You're human, I – I've seen you get tired."

"My batteries need regular charging," Nate said. "Unfortunately, that is not always possible in combat."

"You've eaten with us," Brad said.

"Yes," Nate agreed. "I am programmed to be able to do so."

Brad shook his head again, feeling small and useless for the first time in a long, long while. "We knew you," he said. "We knew – you were one of us."

"Regrettably," Nate said, so soft that Brad had to strain to hear him, "the high importance of the technology I've been created with, and the secrecy of that, meant that very few people were given clearance to know of my true nature. I must apologise on my behalf and theirs for any lie I have told you over the past few years."

"Sir," Brad said, and nothing else. He stared at Nate hopelessly, and eventually Nate looked away, giving Brad his voice back. "Sir," Brad repeated, "I. Why are they stopping you? Aren't you – the best CO because you're a – a—"

"I have not, in the DOD's opinion, been a very good CO at all," Nate said. "I've questioned my superiors. I've shown a reluctance to lead men into battle. In short, I am behaving in an manner that is entirely too—"

"Human," Brad said.

Nate cocked his head to the side. "Yes," he said.

Brad swallowed hard. "What will happen to you now?"

"I will be returned to the scientists who created me," Nate said, absurdly gentle, as if he hadn't led Brad into battle, as if he hadn't trusted Brad to blow them a path all the way to Baghdad and back, keep each and every one of them safe. Brad wondered what would happen if Nate was shot. "They will attempt modifications, and use me as a basis for further developments. Eventually, I will be studied."

"They've got you tied up pretty nicely then, sir," Brad said.

"I'm one of their greatest successes, despite this setback," Nate said. "You needn't think I'm going to be melted down, or anything. I'm not. I am assured of this."

Brad wanted to punch Nate, wanted to tell him not to say that, because it was Brad's Nate who said that, tired and trying his very best to save all of them. "Right," he said.

"They're not monsters, Brad," Nate said. "They are aware of my – discrepancies." Brad blinked at him and thought, a little hysterically, _what, like free will? That kind of discrepancy?_ "I am not a prisoner."

"But you're going to stay here," Brad said.

Nate looked at him, still and quiet. "I have been selfish enough, I think."

"Oh, yeah?"

Nate _wouldn't look away_. "I am aware that our last meeting," he began, and stopped, swallowed. Brad stared at him, greedy. "That I attempted to – I had no right, Brad, and I apologise—"

"Fuck you," Brad said, "sir," and walked out of the room. He slammed the door behind him and went up the stairs, back towards General Davis's office. He made it almost halfway before he turned around and went straight back down, tried to open the door, only evidently it locked from the inside, so he hammered on it until Nate opened the door, wide-eyed.

"Listen," Nate said, and Brad shoved him aside, stepped inside, closed the door, and shoved Nate up against the wall. He caged Nate's face in his hands and kissed him hard, biting at Nate's mouth until Nate opened for him, pressing as close as he possibly could, pressing his thigh in between Nate's legs and rocking against him.

Nate was clinging to him, hands fisted in Brad's coat, pulling him in, tilting his head up and kissing Brad _dirty_ , sucking on Brad's tongue, his bottom lip. Brad ran his hands up over Nate's short hair and Nate craned his face up higher, rocking up on his toes.

"You _want_ this," Brad said, voice torn and ragged, and Nate hooked one leg around Brad's, dragged him closer.

"Yes," he said, voice nothing like Brad had ever heard before.

"You're real," Brad mumbled, and kissed Nate again, hard, smarting, rubbing up against Nate's errection just to prove his point. "Listen to me. Listen to me, you're real, you want me and you're real—"

"Brad," Nate panted, and pushed him away, just slightly. Brad glared. "You can't pretend," Nate said, "you can't, I'm not human—"

"I didn't _say_ human," Brad snarled.

"I am done with being selfish," Nate said, but he kissed Brad again, and again, and again, until they both sank to the floor.

\---

Brad went back to a hotel in Washington. He called Ray and when Ray bombarded him with a hundred questions, he didn't say anything, but after a while he did ask Ray to talk, and Ray obliged with an endless stream of meaningless babble. Brad lay back and listened to it and closed his eyes, and after almost an hour he said, "Thank you."

"Brad," Ray said. "What's going on?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Brad said.

"Is it a conspiracy?" Ray sounded vaguely excited.

"Yeah," Brad said, because it would make Ray happy and because it sort of was. "Yes, Ray, it's a conspiracy."

"Fucking _rad_ , homes," Ray said, and Brad hung up so he could call Rolling Stone and tell him to drop it, not to worry about it, and thanks for the help. Then he got online and booked his flight home.

This time, he thought, he would go home properly. He would go home and not shower, and then he would sleep for a long time. When he woke up, he would ride his bike for many miles down empty roads, and he would go surfing, and he would run. He would run almost as far as he rode his bike, and when that was done, when his days were filled and his weeks were gone, he would go back to whatever war he was being sent to this time, and he would hope that his CO had any kind of leadership he could put faith in, and he would get himself and Ray and Trombley and Walt out alive, and as many of the others that he could.

He was flipping through the crappy range of stations offered on his equally crappy TV when there was a knock at the door. Brad opened it to Nate, and didn't know what to do, where to go.

"Can I come in?" Nate said. Brad stepped aside.

"What are you doing?" he asked, when it became clear that Nate wasn't going to offer an explanation.

"Gathering evidence," Nate said, with a half-smile, like it was an inside joke. Brad stared at him, and Nate's shoulders slumped. He said, "I am programmed to understand men, Brad."

"Okay," Brad said. He went and sat down on the bed.

"It's helpful for me in combat situations," Nate said. "If I can understand how men work, if I can be a friendly but respected Commanding Officer, then I will be more effective in my role. You cannot imagine the work and technology and sheer genius that has gone into me, Brad. I am not the kind of science fiction creation who will fumble in social situations and be awkward. I am designed to be efficient."

"Right," Brad said.

"I have no idea," Nate said, "what you have done to my wiring, but I suspect it is something very terrible."

Brad rubbed his eyes. He felt suddenly tired. "You brought a bag," he said.

"It's very presumptuous of me," Nate said.

"I think kissing me without telling me that you weren't technically alive might have been more so," Brad pointed out.

"Yes," Nate said. He looked at Brad. "You see now why they have relieved me of my position. I have become small and selfish, and not very good at distance."

"Do they know you're here?" Brad asked.

"Yes," Nate said. "I left with full authority to do so."

Brad said, "Nate," and Nate crossed the floor and sat down next to him, their shoulders overlapping.

Nate whispered, "You cannot possibly imagine how terrifying this is. How – this is not meant to happen, Brad. I have to plug myself into an electrical socket once a week or I accidentally power down. I am not meant for this, I am not prepared for – if I had a heart—"

"You have a pulse," Brad interrupted.

"It's synthesised," Nate said. Brad took Nate's hand, grazed his fingers gently down Nate's wrist to feel Nate's pulse. Nate lifted Brad's hand to his mouth, pulled his knees up so he could rest Brad's hand on Nate's knees, Nate's face on Brad's palm.

"I think it's happening anyway," Brad said, voice rough.

"Yes," Nate said.

"Please don't ever go away again," Brad said. It was stupid and small of him, but he couldn't help it. "Please don't. Promise me you won't. Promise me you won't ever go away where I can't find you."

"I promise," Nate said.

"I don't think I handle it very well," Brad said, staring at the ground. Nate's breath was very warm on his palm.

"You found me," Nate said. "I think you handled it alright."

"I always will," Brad said. "You can be assured of this." Nate laughed, small and uncertain, and Brad said, "I would prefer if I didn't need to, though."

"Come here," Nate said, and he sprawled backwards on the bed, pulled Brad down on top of him, keeping Nate there. "What would you like me to do?" Nate asked, and Brad turned his head, breathing out against Nate's hair.

"I'd like it if you chose," he said.

"I get in trouble for doing things like that," Nate said, and he sounded like he was trying to make a joke, but he also sounded kind of frightened.

"I know," Brad said.

Nate didn't move. Brad thought about going home for a third imagined time, trying to understand this even though he didn't think he ever would. "I would like to stay," Nate said, and Brad nodded, closed his eyes, listened to the very soft, only just discernible whir of Nate's machinery, lighting the both of them up.


End file.
